


Silent Sigh

by LadyLoquacity



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Jealousy, M/M, Oral Sex, Silence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-18
Updated: 2016-03-18
Packaged: 2018-05-27 13:28:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,275
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6286540
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyLoquacity/pseuds/LadyLoquacity
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written as part of the come at once LJ community challenge, prompt was "jealousy doesn't suit you".</p>
            </blockquote>





	Silent Sigh

They find themselves pressed against the wall, arched upon the sofa, tangled in bed panting voiceless encouragements. It's only the next day that one of them speaks a word. 

-

The door slams shut behind the two of them out of breath, thanks to an impromptu race home from the crime scene (warm night, no taxi, adrenaline high after solving a case). John braces his hands on his thighs, leaning forward in an effort to regain his breath. He's surprised (although later he'll admit not that surprised) by a large warm hand caressing the nape of his neck. Returning to an upright position, he turns slightly to face Sherlock. He opens his mouth to ask a question (why? how long? me? He is never able to recall what he was planning to ask. He'll never know, but he doesn't quite care, any more, it doesn’t matter). He's silenced by a finger pressing against his lips, and an inquisitive face looming closer. He lets Sherlock study his face, quietly, waiting for his next move. The only sound in the hallway is the combined sound of their breathing, deep and heavy breaths of anticipation.

Sherlock moves closer, removing his finger from John's chapped lips. Their noses are almost touching; John can feel warm breath tickling across his slightly parted lips. He knows where this is going, now, and he's not going to resist it. They've been dancing around it for bloody years. The only reason John himself hadn't done anything was the fact he really rather liked Sherlock, and despite the eyeballs in the microwave and the heads in the freezer, he enjoyed living with him. And he'd have to move out, if Sherlock had rejected his advances. He'd have been mortified.

So, it was a good thing, then, that Sherlock moved his hand, cupping the back of John's head, pulling him forward. And it was very good indeed, to hear the slight moan escaping from the detective's lips, almost as soon as their kiss had begun. Despite all the longing and tension that had built between them over the years, the kiss was slow, gentle, exploratory. Gradually, hands began to roam across bodies; clumsy fingers tangled with buttons as hungry lips devoured willing and pliant necks, collarbones, shoulders anywhere they could find that had not yet been claimed.

Panting, they pull away from each other. Sherlock kicks off his shoes and heads abruptly for the stairs, and John feels a moment of abandonment, until he’s beckoned forward. John watches as Sherlock begins to strip off the rest of his clothes as he walks suit jacket slung across the banister of the stairs, shirt cuffs unbuttoned, before the shirt itself is removed, thrown to the floor, the clinking of his belt as it’s unfastened and removed. Mrs Hudson is going to figure out exactly what happened in her hallway, but it’s the last thing on either of their minds. John is so transfixed by the way Sherlock undresses as he walks that he makes no attempt to take his own clothes off. He follows slowly, step by step, mouth agape as another item of clothing falls away. On the top step, Sherlock steps out of his trousers, and turns back to look at a nearly fully clothed and awestruck John. He stands there in his underpants and socks, and allows himself a small smug smirk of satisfaction, before rolling his eyes and grabbing John’s wrist, pulling him up the last few steps and towards their leather sofa.

Finally coming somewhat to his senses, John moves forward again, both hands reaching to take hold of Sherlock’s face. He begins with kisses along his jawline, down the smooth curve of his neck, along the sharp line of his collarbones. Sherlock responds by pushing John down onto the sofa, then straddles his lap. He lets his long fingers pluck open the buttons on John’s blue checked shirt, quicker than John expected him to in such a state. With his torso now on display, John would usually feel slightly self-conscious, displaying himself like this to a new partner, but Sherlock doesn’t let his mind drift in that direction. With his violinist’s fingertips, he brushes the hardening peaks of John’s nipples. John gasps, and looking down, sees evidence of Sherlock’s growing arousal. He holds Sherlock’s elbow, encouraging him closer, and kisses him again. It’s a hungry kiss, a promise of more, a promise of again, soon, yes. 

Sherlock moans into John’s mouth as he feels a hand close around his thickening cock, the warmth of John’s hand radiating through the thin cotton fabric. He could easily stay there forever, he thinks, but it’ll get uncomfortable after a while, and oh god, John’s still fully clothed. Sherlock pulls away, reluctantly. John looks surprised, but when their eyes meet again, Sherlock tilts his head to the side, as if to say, “Bedroom?” John nods, and almost pushes Sherlock the rest of the way off his lap in his enthusiasm. 

-

John quickly discards most of his clothes in the living room, so by the time he’s joined a now naked Sherlock in his bedroom, all that remains is his boxer shorts. Sherlock’s sitting on the edge of his bed, and holds his hand out to John, who moves to stand between his legs. He opens his mouth to speak, but the words never reach his lips, cut short by the way Sherlock slowly pulls down his boxer shorts, his cock now bobbing free, tantalisingly close to Sherlock’s lips. 

He needs, oh, how he needs. And Sherlock knows just what’s running through John’s mind, can read his desire on his face, his posture, by the sound of his breath in the quiet room. 

Sherlock licks his lips, slowly, on purpose. He knows John is watching, and waiting, desperate for this next step to start. He opens his mouth, relaxes his jaw, and takes just the tip of John’s cock between his lips. He flicks his tongue slowly against the hot skin, and takes more in, alternately teasing and moving forward, until he’s taken John’s whole length. John is breathing heavily, tense and taut, trying to retain as much composure as he can. He’s trying not to thrust into Sherlock’s warm and wet mouth, as much as he wants to grab onto the curls and just take what he needs. Not this first time. 

As Sherlock moves off, he takes John in his mouth a little quicker this time, and John holds onto the back of Sherlock’s head, more to steady himself than anything else; he’s gentle, and not forcing anything. If they’re only going to do this once, tonight, then he wants to start slow, keep going, keep sharing whatever they have between them. There’ll be time for them later, in the dark hours of the morning, for pleading and desperation. For now, pleasure. Slow, rippling pleasure, that John feels starts in his feet, building until he’s groaning, pushing at Sherlock’s shoulder. He’s too late to grab a t-shirt, and too far gone to even think about what he’s doing, holding his pulsing cock as Sherlock’s neck is splattered with his release. Oh, god.

\--

John is surprised about precisely two things when he wakes up. One - Sherlock didn’t send him packing off to his room last night, and two - Sherlock is still asleep, and John’s the first one of them awake. He’s just about to get up in search of tea and toast, when Sherlock stirs beside him.

“I’ll have to flirt with Greg more often then, if this is what happens when you’re jealous,” John says, as he stretches his arms above his head. 

“Shut up.”


End file.
